Bittersweet
by Whoa Tamo
Summary: Murdoc remembers a time when he spent an entire night with 2D. Hintings of slash. Oneshot. Please read and review it really is worth the time it takes to read it.


Title: Bittersweet

Rating: R

Warnings: None really.

Disclaimer: I don't own Gorillaz, the song "Girls and Boys" by Blur, the phrase "the pole and the hole" or much of anything in this story to be honest. I do, however, own the concept, so don't steal it.

Summary: Murdoc tells the tale of a night years ago when he spent the evening with 2-D.

Pairing: Murdoc/2-D

Authoress Ramblings: I decided to write a little one-shot for the sake of writing a one-shot. I hope everyone likes the story and blah, blah, blah, please review.

Bittersweet

It was a few years ago I decided to take a crack at talking to the dullard. He had already woken from his coma a few months before, but I was still taking care of him since he had nowhere to go. Yeah, I can be a softie sometimes. Even though we were living together, we really didn't talk much. We both had this sort of silent understanding that the Winnebago wasn't a place for conversing and merriment, but a place to go through our dull lives day to day and wallow in our own self pity. Once in a while I would be forced to interact with him, like when he went with me to get food, but aside from that we led separate lives and had accepted that interacting with one another was out of the question. One reason that I didn't really speak to 2-D was because of this shit awful stutter I had gotten from a recent delve into speed; I was also suffering from meth withdrawal, which was making me a good deal grouchier and more melancholic then usual. At the time I didn't like it when he spoke, which is probably why he kept to himself most of the time. He had (and still has) this kind of high pitched squeak of a voice that makes him sound like a fucking muppet. Granted, my voice isn't smooth like a baby's arse either, but at least you could find mine in something a _bit_ more sophisticated then Sesame Street.

But back to the story at hand. We ran out of food earlier that day with me eating the last can of tuna and 2-D scrounging together a sandwich made of rubbery bologna and some suspicious looking mayonnaise. I was sitting on the couch reading the paper while he was playing Pac-Man on my sorry excuse for a telly. It was another boring day, what with a lack of interesting deaths in the obituaries and our usual trip to the grocery store having been canceled so I could go to rehab instead. His stomach was growling, as was mine, but instead of venturing out to quench my hunger, I lit a cigarette and smoked peacefully. I'm still not sure why, but I suddenly got real upset at the fact that the numb nuts and I never spoke. Usually shit like this didn't bother me too badly, but for some reason that night it did. Thinking back, it was probably the nicotine on an empty stomach. Either way, I blew out a puff of smoke and decided to humor this strange little feeling, musing that after my attempt at a conversation inevitably failed, I could go back to reading my precious paper in silence. "You smoke?"

He wasn't surprised like I was hoping he would be. Instead he paused the game and looked up at me, his eyes following the streams of smoke and said, "Yeah." Then after pausing for a minute, went on to say, "Can I bum one o' those?"

Amazing, isn't it? I managed to get a total of six and a half words out of the man. I leaned forward, holding one of my smokes out to him, and watched smugly as he crawled over to me and took it into his hand. He spent a long time looking over the smoke with this weird look on his face. This, in turn, confused me. "W-w-what the fuck're you w-waitin' for? If you need a light then just ask for o-one."

"What the hell is this?"

"W-what the hell is w-w-what?"

"What's this thing you gave me? This ain't a cigarette. Did you put crack in it? Or pot or somethin'?"

For those of you who are as big of idiots as 2-D, allow me to explain what I was smoking. There's this _lovely_ little invention known as the Cigarillo, which is a cigarette sized cigar without a filter, more-or-less. They smell fucking fantastic and smoke smoother then anything else I've had. I explained this to him, tossed him my light, and watched as he turned on my lighter with his ring finger, a very difficult task if you've ever attempted it. Saying I was impressed was an understatement. "Nice trick, muppet."

I lifted my beautiful tan arse off the couch, rubbed my lower back, and trudged into my bedroom where 2-D was sitting cross legged on my bed with the covers pulled 'round his legs, smoking and watching the paused video game screen with this serene, sleepy look on his face. I sat next to him, almost done with my own Cigarillo and in the mood to start drinking some vodka. I decided to keep pushing the conversation, my mood somehow unsatisfied. "W-what about drinking? You drink anything?" I was glad when he nodded; I would have a drinking buddy out of this fucker.

In a cardboard box under my bed was a bottle of vodka along with a nice, young bottle of wine and some Jack Daniels whiskey I barely touched. I personally don't like the taste of it, but that's just me. He snatched the wine from me as soon as I pulled it up, leaving me with the whiskey and vodka. The vodka was almost gone, only about a shot left, so I decided not to waste it. Instead I opened up the whiskey to drink up until I was desperate for some alcohol I actually liked. The whiskey wasn't too bad, so I kept that up 'til the bottle was nearly one third gone. 2-D on the other hand was chugging through the wine like it was water, some of it dribbling down his chin. It doesn't matter what it is you're drinking, if you chug it down I automatically lose some of my respect for you. I dropped the whiskey back into the box with the vodka, deciding to end my drinking binge for the time being. I could always go out later if I really wanted to. We weren't speaking for the moment, which for once was making me feel uncomfortable; mildly uncomfortable, sure, but still uncomfortable.

For some reason I can remember his nails tapping against the bottle and scratching the label off in messy strips. The front of his shirt was stained a dull maroon from the wine, and I let out a chuckle from the idiocy of it all. He looked at me, slightly perplexed, and put the wine bottle on the floor. "Why'd you stop drinkin'?"

Usually when someone asks a question like that I slug 'em for being a fuckin' idiot. However, I was having a nice buzz that I didn't want ruined, so instead I lit another Cigarillo and sent him one of those "you're shitting, right?" looks that I've become famous for. That inkling urge I had _still_ wouldn't go away, and the silence was making me more and more uncomfortable, so I blew some smoke in his direction with this slow smirk on my face. "Do you w-w-want to get somethin' to eat?" He nodded. I grabbed the keys, and we left.

I was hungry for a bit of pub food, something like fish and chips maybe, but 2-D wanted Chinese so I broke down and drove to King Doh. Even though I wasn't in the mood for Chinese I still had to admit that I chowed down most of the fried rice and had my fair share of shrimp and broccoli. After going through a platter of pot stickers, crab Rangoon, and our entrees, we sat staring at the décor and pretended to admire it. Well, at least I did. For all I know with all that Asian shit he's got in his room now he may have really been enjoying the crap.

When I looked back at Stu he was already watching me, which unnerved me slightly. I mentally slapped myself for taking us to a smoke free restaurant, 'cause right then I needed a distraction. He was goin' to town with the look he was giving; it was scary how concentrated he was. "How'd you get the red eye?"

I ignored the NO SMOKING signs and pulled out my last Cigarillo. I'd have to go pick up a new pack, yeah, but it was an excuse to buy some food and more vodka while I was at it. "Well what happened to yours, eh?" Okay, I admit it, it was a stupid question. I already knew what happened to them. We all know what happened to them. _I _happened to them. He didn't answer because he didn't have to, and so I took a deep breath, knowing he would stay silent until I told him how it happened that I received a bright red eye. Maybe I had been away from other people for far too long, 'cause the thought of him being silent upset me. "I used to do meth."

I went into this long, elaborate explanation of how I used to rub crystal meth in my eye socket until it got infected, how I didn't take care of it, how I kept doin' it 'til I went temporarily blind in that eye and…well, when I began explaining how it made me hit him that fateful day, he frowned, and I decided to shut up. I can remember that there was one of those cloth type pictures right above our booth. They make for a nice distraction when you're mildly buzzed, and contently full. "Why'd you break into the organ shop anyway?" And just as quickly as it had come, my distractions went away, and I was forced to be in communication with Mr. Tusspot once more. He had one of his knees bent and level to his chest, and his arm was resting on the joint. I blew out some smoke from my cigarette, thinking over his question for an answer that didn't make me sound like another hopeless dreamer with his mind trapped in a bottle of booze. Hmm…that's pretty poetic. I'll try and fit it in a song sometime.

Anyway, I stabbed my cigarette out in one of the little cups they give you, watching the ash swirl around in my untouched tea. Things like that always gave me this weird nostalgic feel, which I guess was appropriate for what I was going to talk about. Granted, all I was preparing for was spewing dramatic bullshit about my pitiful life, but hey, I may as well add a little class to it. "I came up with the brilliant idea to start a w-world famous band, y'see, t' try an' make more money," I said in my most worldly, sophisticated voice, admiring the fact that I only stuttered one time. "But the fuckin' problem, man, w-was that I didn't even have the fuckin' money to buy the instruments, right? That's w-w-where the organ shop came in. See, as long as I got the shit I needed, I'd know what t' do. I've got me some real horrorshow people skills, man. I could make it in anything…w-well, s'long as there's money involved."

"Horrorshow…ain't that from A Clockwork Orange? I thought I remembered some shit like that," was what he said. Again he didn't have the reaction I had been hoping for. I shrugged, unable to remember if "horrorshow" was from A Clockwork Orange or not. Come to think of it, I never did look that up. I really should get to it sometime. "So, you play keyboard?"

"Nah, I don't play keys."

"Well, why not?"

"I…never learned?"

"I mean like…why'd you steal keyboards if you can't play 'em?"

"So I could find someone who COULD play 'em."

"So…you sing?"

I gave him a long look. "Imagine for a minute w-what it w-w-would sound like if I sang. That should answer your question." He nodded, realizing I had a pretty good point there. "Look, I don't want you hurtin' yourself tryin' to think of anymore instruments, so to put an end to this, I play bass. Self taught, I might add." He wasn't impressed, but then again, he had never heard me play before.

The check came, and I dropped a twenty down, leaving them virtually no tip. I was tight for money at the time and just didn't have it in me to give up my other twenty, which I desperately wanted to use on a bottle of vodka. We left the restaurant together, chatting nonchalantly to one another. From King Doh's I drove us to one of those little drug stores and ran in to buy a cheap bottle of vodka and some cigarettes, then ran back out and got into my car. I would've brought Stu in with me, but at the time I didn't want to deal with 2-D trying to buy candy bars, gum, or whatever the fuck he might have been in the mood for. As soon as I got in I opened the bottle and handed it over to 2-D, who took timid sips. I appreciated that.

I didn't like the bar scene in those days. I was too caught up in my own self-loathing to be able to be around other people at the time. Well, people other then 2-D, but he was living with me so I couldn't really help that one. I stopped the car on the side of the road, snatched the bottle back, and took a quick, satisfying gulp. I hunched down in my seat to assume my typical drinking position, flipped a few switches to turn on the radio, and ripped open the cigarette box. The smokes were shitty, the kind that left a nasty smell in your clothes and an even worse taste in your mouth. If it weren't for the nicotine addiction, I would have said "fuck it" to smoking 'em. I turned to 2-D, who was beginning to hum along to the tune on the stereo softly, just enough that I could hear what he was doing, but not loud enough to hear how he sounded. Well, you know what I mean.

Together we drank and smoked ourselves shit-faced, 2-D being worse since he had a lower alcohol tolerance then I did. I had flicked close to five butts out my window and onto the side of the road, and was working on my sixth when the radio died. Even after 2-D hit it and I gave it a good kick the thing wouldn't work. To be honest I didn't need the radio, but Stu had a real thing for music, possibly more then I did, and he liked to listen to the radio or my old LPs whenever he got the chance. It's odd how I remember that after all these years. "So…you got a singer yet?" He tried to act all nonchalant, like he had only idly thought of it, but the way he was looking at me told me that he had been mustering up the courage to ask that for a while. I sighed, bathing the air around my head in smoke and the smell of booze, coffee, Chinese food, and any other lingering odors on my breath. I shook my head, waiting until 2-D brought up the inevitable. I knew any minute he would mention that he could sing, just like the other people I met before him did, and he would sing alright, but not what I was looking for, and pretty soon I would be out another drinking buddy. "I sing pretty well, at least I think. Can I eh…can I sing for you?"

I nodded, and he sang. He started off with Blur's "Girls and Boys", which was alright, like I thought it would be, but also like I thought, it wasn't _exactly_ what I wanted. I looked into the rearview mirror to stare into my mismatched eyes and think. How was it that Stu sounded horrible when he spoke, but pretty good when he sang? And better yet, what did he sound like when he wasn't drunk off his rocker? Out of instinct I reached out and patted him on the shoulder rather roughly when he was finished. I used to do something similar to my younger sister whenever she did something good. Anyway, though, he looked at me in surprise, which made me smirk slightly in delight. The only time I ever felt confidence in myself was when I managed to make someone feel uncomfortable, or smaller than me. "You sing decently."

Decently. At the time the best word I could fucking come up with was "decently." Back then I didn't realize it as much as I do now, but I had been going through a part of my life that was the lowest of my lows. I couldn't even muster a kind word, much less a fucking compliment for the poor sap. The silence was getting a bit thick for my liking, but before I could speak, he was offering a new conversation. "Who was better, John Wayne or Clint Eastwood?" I gladly accepted.

"I'd say Eastwood, but that's just 'cause I'm pretty fuckin' partial to Dirty Harry myself, y'know? I mean you can't fuckin' beat a movie 'bout some crazy arsed cowboy w-wannabe runnin' 'round shootin' people in the head w-with a look like he might eat you w-w-when he's all done shootin', ya know?"

"He ate who he killed? I don't 'member that part."

"Fuckin'…no, that's fuckin' Hannibal, man. Dirty Harry just looked badass, man, like fuckin'…you're a fuckin' numb nuts sometimes."

2-D laughed, and I joined him quietly, then got louder as we both went on. Neither of us knew what was so funny, but I guess it was hilarious. A fuckin' riot for nothing, in a way. It happens when people get drunk, 'specially if they're like 2-D, who usually didn't drink much. "But Murdoc, what about _The Searchers_?" He scooted himself closer to me and grabbed a hold of the steering wheel as he did so to help keep his support.

I flicked the cigarette I had been smoking out my window. "W-what about _The Searchers_? There was too much fuckin' drama, man, and no o-one w-w-was actually fuckin' killed on screen. Fuck that."

He gave a playfully disappointed look and spoke in an even higher pitched voice than his normal one, "Muds, what about the Little Debbie snack cakes! Do you think we'd have Ho-Hos and Nutty Bars without Little Debbie?"

"I bet w-we'd still have Ho-Hos and Nutty Bars even if Hostess called it something other than 'Little Debbie'. Don't be a twat, man, just fuckin' admit that Eastwood's a lot fuckin' cooler than W-W-Wayne." Just to say, this isn't a very uncommon argument for 2-D and I. There was a time we argued over who was the best TV judge when we toured in America. I kept saying Judge Joe Brown, but he insisted on Judge Judy. Please, Judge Judy's just another bird goin' through menopause.

A strange smell was in the air. It was like my breath, but stronger, fruitier, with a hint of mint, and it was missing all signs of halitosis. Stu had placed a hand by my head on the seat's headrest while he held himself up with his other hand on the steering wheel. I instantly began to sober up. "Stu, lemme tell you something. I appreciate personal space. Move." He drew closer to me. "Move, you fuckin' dullard!"

But he wouldn't move. He wouldn't budge. He just looked at me and looked at me and looked at me and…I felt everything I had eaten that day, everything from the rotten tuna to that Chinese hit my stomach and hit it hard. I felt like I might be sick if he didn't fucking move out of my way. A few strands of his spiked blue hair rubbed against my ear, and I shot away. If the door hadn't been there I would have made it a good three feet away from him. Now don't get me wrong, men like 2-D don't scare me, so don't think that I was afraid of him or anything, but I just didn't want anyone close to me at the time. That goes for anyone, understood? Even if Stu had been a blonde bimbo with tits out the fuckin' wazoo I wouldn't have wanted his arse anywhere near me, got it? Good. Just clearing things up. Anyway, he was getting closer and closer, and as much as I really hated to admit it, he was beginning to make me nervous.

One of his hands took a hold of my face, and I felt my chest turn cold. "Murdoc…I…I know that it's probably the wine talking, but the wine's sayin' I should tell you somethin'…somethin' you," he took a large gulp, as if holding back vomit, "-somethin' you should know." I wanted to jerk away, but even while my mind was screaming for me to shove him, punch him, _something_, I decided to let him say what he wanted for two reasons. One was that I was curious as hell as to how he was going to say it to me, and the other reason was because that stupid feeling to talk to him was still flaring its ugly head, and I knew if I punched him he wouldn't want to carry on any sort of conversation afterwards. "I've been livin' with you for, what, like, three months? Four? Some shit like that? An' like, I didn't tell you earlier 'cause we weren't talkin' an' shit, but I'm into you, ya dig? But I'm not gay. I'm no fuckin' poof. I've had chicks, man, plenty. But I like you. I mean, I really fuckin' like you."

He really fucking liked me. I looked surprised even though I already knew he was going to say it.

"Great, just w-what I need, you like the pole _and_ the hole. Look, I ain't that w–w-way man, okay? I never tried shit with a bloke, an' I don't fuckin' plan on startin' man. It's not my thing. I'm not into that scene." My heart was beating a helluva lot harder then I wished it were. I bet he could feel it, what with him having been so close to me and everything. Stu moved closer to me like I didn't say anything deterring, his lips too close to mine for comfort. I could smell his breath much more clearly, and just as Noodle's said, behind the smell of Chinese food and cheap liquor, he always has the hint of butterscotch. I gave him my cheek as he made contact with me, which didn't stop him. Stu's mouth pressed heavily against my skin as he moved his head down to my jaw line and neck, then to my left shoulder. I heard his hand clumsily leave the steering wheel and fly to my face. My own hand reached behind me for the seatbelt I had removed earlier, and I belted myself in. He looked confused and hurt, but moved back into his own seat. After he put his seatbelt back on, I swore I saw him wipe his eyes of a few tears, and I felt my heart set heavy against my ribcage.

Fuck emotions.

I drove us back to my Winnebago in silence. 2-D was watching the scenery whiz by outside his window, and he didn't say a word, not even a passing comment the entire drive. That night I let him sleep on my bed, telling him to take it easy while I took his usual spot on the couch. I didn't sleep well that night. The rusting ceiling of my Winnebago was suddenly the most fascinating thing in the world to stare at for hours and hours. Lying there I remember hugging a pillow to my chest and smelling it cautiously for a whiff of 2-D. Mostly I was only able to smell my own dirty scent, but beneath the layers of disgusting man-stink there was the very faint remnant of Stu. I caught myself smiling when I thought of him using the pillow to sleep.

The next morning was the same as always; gray and dull with the light sound of snoring. When 2-D finally woke up, he lay awake for a few minutes before sitting up and staring at me. I had really hoped he forgot what he said to me. I rolled onto my side so my back was to him, and I decided to wait and see what happened. His feet shuffled along the linoleum flooring and stopped right in front of the couch. "I don't know 'bout you, but my head's killin' me."

I gave a half-hearted shrug and pulled the puke stained fleece blanket over my head. "Yeah, hangovers do that."

"Yeah…it's been a while since I drank like that." Silence. "Say, Murdoc, what uh…what did I say to you last night?" I imagined him biting his lip out of fear of me remembering what he had done.

"Fuck if I know. Crazy shit most likely. I try not to remember w-w-what people ramble off w-when they're drunk."

"So you just remember like…what exactly?"

"Look, something about snack cakes and cowboys. Fuck if I know, okay? Shit man, who cares? I fuckin' don't. Go back to bed. It ain't noon yet."

I heard him let out a sigh and shuffle back to my bed, then within fifteen minutes I heard him snoring again. I let out my own sigh of relief and pulled the blanket off. I reached into my pocket and pulled out one of my three remaining cigarettes, lit it up, and rolled onto my other side to stare at the wall and smoke in peace.

Over the years 2-D and I hung out like we had that night, and over the years he kept on proclaiming his love for me in odd drunken dazes. Each morning he slept in with the safety that I didn't remember. Hey, what he didn't know didn't hurt him, right? A lot of great things happened that night, don't get me wrong. I made a friend out of Stu, and I did have a good day aside from the whole "I dig you" thing. In a lot of ways I'm glad he keeps doing it, because trust me, there's nothing like hearing someone say "I love you" to boost your ego. On the other hand I still feel real weird afterward, 'cause even though a lot's changed, a lot hasn't.

I still can't stand to listen to his voice for too long, and I still sometimes get that shitty stutter, and in a real sad, pathetic way, just like 2-D's not ready to tell me how he feels when he's sober…I'm not ready to hear it.

End Ramblings: Well, did everyone enjoy the story? I do hope so. Please review, I would very much appreciate it.


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